Fire
by PockyWarriors
Summary: Five words came to mind, wound around the word Spain. A gray spot blotted out their relationship, when she was first ripped from the people Aztec, and clasped in Spain's long tan fingers. Blood spattered pianist fingers.


Fire. Pain. Death. Hate. Breaking.

Those five words are all that come to mind when Spain crosses the undersides of Mexico's eyelids. Not love, not happiness, not the naïve adoration of little girl looking up at her idol, no not even lust. Just hate. Hate as strong and bright as the sun she could see through her eyelashes. Fire, hot and blazing like the gateway to hell. Pain, like a thousand hot white pokers pressing into her body as she watched her father die. Death, death that reeked and invaded her nostrils even though all that death happened ages ago. Breaking, the sound of the temples breaking from all the stones and fire all the hate the Spanish had bought with them, the sound of her papa's bones breaking still haunted her at night, and still the beautiful symphony of breaking bone as she crushed Antonio's with her fist, savoring the way it had crumbled under her hateful swing.

She was good at hate, she was good at pain, she was good at breaking things, she was good when it came to death, even fire learned to respect her. But eventually after so much had happened she learned not to feel anything.

She felt nothing when Spain had offered her his first smile, lying that everything would be alright, that her papa was alright that her people were alright.

But she didn't make it easy for him. She was a girl when he had first ripped her from her homeland. Across the ocean she longed for her home. Home. Such a beautiful word amongst all this hate and disgust. But she didn't make it easy for him. Hell no. Ha.

The first week she stayed at Spain's…was hell and heaven.

Spain's other colonies enjoyed seeing him vulnerable to the mind games, and ripping emotions she wound him in, he was constantly humiliated. Yet, he loved every sinful word that dropped from her lips. She hated him. That first week, it was obvious, this was a formidable opponent, this was a girl who would not just lie down, and this was a fighter.

Spain saw this, so he taxed her, he tore her land and people apart. Still she would not stop. He had definitely slowed her down, instead of a raging inferno she was the ocean, powerful but slow, gradually, strategically eroding the rocks, waiting for the last strips of land to be grinded into rock so that everywhere would be the grand element of water.

Gradually as she grew older, her emotions fueled by hot Aztec blood, boiled in her veins. And again there was a volcano erupting randomly, lashing out at Spain, and making his friends keep a respectful if not flirtatious distance. Spain really couldn't hold himself back, even though she ripped him up, played with his love, scorned him with her beautiful eyes, he loved her. An addiction. He was obsessed.

She should have been broken after he had slashed her land and people in two, she should have been broken to see all her brothers and sisters tortured, she should have been broken after she was tortured. She should have been crushed to pieces after Spain had first cornered her in her room. Thrown onto the over priced bed and plush pillows, crushing his lips to hers and allowing his hands to wander on her beautiful fourteen year old body.

But she wasn't broken. She was angered, and pushed to return to her quest of returning home with a new vigor. The anger was a reliable, source.

She was a walking time bomb, ticking faster whenever Spain entered the room. He drew to her like a moth to flame. She would recoil like a snake ready to strike, merciless, venom dripping from fangs, heedless to the life she would snuff out. She would fight her way out.

The day her independence was given, his house was a sad one. Mexico had laughed and shrieked with joy, jumping up and down with a rifle strapped to her back, cerulean eyes blazing with crazed joy, her long tan legs that had been wrapped around his waist propelling her into the air. Those golden bronze fingers grasping the rifle and her hat waving them in the air, as she turned and laughed with her people. He watched her eyes turn towards him, locking with his green ones.

He would have liked to say they were full of longing for him, a terrible sorrow, but that was nothing close.

They were alive, those blue orbs, alive and jubilant, excitement and triumph evident even from his position of kneeling in a pool of his men's blood. The only thing close to the sadness was the pity in her eyes, looking down on him from her proud posture, legs spread apart, hands grasping the pole with her new flag, hat in her hands. Her braid flying behind her, blood streaked across her hands, face and chest. Staring down at him, he wanted to hug her legs, and place kisses along her thighs, wishing for the times when she was still his Bonita to stay with him. He wanted to claim the lips that were his, run his fingers in her hair.

For a moment he even thought she was going to bend down and kiss him, or give him an apologetic hug, but she didn't. Not even close.

She clasped the pole with her flag in it, turning towards her people she raised it up with both hands, the cheering ridiculously loud. She spun around and to the roaring and screaming and shouting of the crowd she slammed it down into the ground a hairs breadth from his hands splayed into the bloody ground, spattering both of them with the blood of countrymen and enemies. He looked up at her, a pleading expression on his face: please don't do this….don't leave me.

And her eyes a happy cerulean turned tortured, then deviously dangerous: you had this coming.

She leant down to his face, the crowd quieted, "I hope you know this is only the beginning, it will only get harder, I would pray for you, but you're a sick bastard. I'm not sorry for all of this, I am sorry we met like we did." And against his better judgment he pushed his face forward and briefly placed his lips on hers, a butterfly's touch, a feather graze. But she had grabbed his head and yanked him from his slouched position and made him face the crowd. His head faced the Heavens; his mouth bared in a pained grimace, a strangled sound erupted from his throat.

The crowd burst with volume with their vengeful pleasure. But Mexico did not slit his throat, she did not bash his head into the ground, she did not demand an instant killing of his people to reciprocate his horror on hers.

He croaked out, "…My Bonita…"

And she turned, hurling him a good four feet away from her with her knee, slamming him into the dirt.

"I'm not Bonita." She called out to him, "I was never yours." Only Spain heard her, his heart cracked down the middle, tears spilt from the corner of his eyes, trailing streaks in the dirt and blood that caked his face.

No one but Mexico noticed him leaving. The crowd had gone to partying, she had followed him fro the forest, and making sure he left.

Only when he was about to board his boat, alone for the journey home did he turn around and look at her, knowing all along that she was watching.

"No longer mine?" he asked his voice scratchy and broken. She stepped out, from the trees.

"I am Mexico." She gave him a sadistic happy and sad smile, placing her hands on her hips to torture him. His mind was burdened with flashes of images, his hands outlining her body naked to the night and him, hands tangled in his hair, her laughing face when she let him tug her away from the edge of the lake, lips crushed against each other, names on each other's lips. Perhaps it was all a game to her.

He didn't want any more self inflicted pain, he left, looking back constantly.

At home no one was waiting for him. Even Lovino was gone, even though he had never left a note, Spain knew the Italian was probably somewhere in his place, warming Mexico's bed. He recognized the look in Lovino's eyes whenever Mexico walked in. He would congratulate her, and would confess, she'd probably accept him, and there had been moments between the two.

Sighing sadly, he fell to his knees, only getting up to skulk off to Mexico's room, tangling himself in her sheets, and taking in her scent. He only slept soundly in her room.

Years had passed, centuries, his feelings never had died, she no was no longer furious at him, more tolerant and able to joke with him. It was only at a world conference when she had laughed and hugged him commentating on how he never came around to visit anymore, when he realized, this beautiful wolf of a woman, this deranged delicate flower, this crazy devious goddess was only playing with him. Toying with him like he was nothing but a mouse, and that maybe he would have another chance with her.

Maybe he could take her country again, and have her in his house, waiting for him when he came home.

He gulped as images of ages ago, smells of sweat on skin, and secret sex filled nights flooded his brain, he worked hard at letting her out of his arms.

This was Mexico, his fire. A flame in the middle of the night. Forever burning him inside.

Mexico remained weary of Spain, but she was no longer a colony around him, she was a country. A fire, a formidable enemy. She was Mexico, a flame in the middle of the ocean.

**Yeah…I don't know, kinda dark?**

**Agh it was running around burning my brain cells so I had to get it out…please review…if ya liked it, or not…please? **


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